


It'll pass

by victorialukas



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Other, Pining, Pining Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24371089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorialukas/pseuds/victorialukas
Summary: When Crowley develops a crush on an angel, he tells himself it'll pass. (Spoiler: It doesn't.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 87





	It'll pass

**Author's Note:**

> Canon-compliant (ish). Shoutout to crowleywhomst on Tumblr, whose [post](https://crowleywhomst.tumblr.com/post/618667343373025280/fic-ideas-im-not-going-to-use-continued?fbclid=IwAR3JM_GPFoBEgHWEfMyLtjojuZQDX0OKjWhZiepdTvqI7GvGylY7oapbvao) inspired this fic. CW for mild alcohol consumption.

He had a crush on an angel.

Perhaps falling hadn’t been punishment enough. God had to bring Her sick sense of humour into the mix, sending down the most bizarre, stunning being to taunt Crawly. The angel gave away the damn sword. He had one job and, despite putting up the front that he was full of Grace, devoted to the Almighty, Good with a capital “G”...he was willing to go _against_ orders and do what he believed was right. This Aziraphale was unique among his kind: he had a rebellious streak not quite strong enough to make him Fall, but it was there nonetheless. And Crawly was completely taken with him. How humiliating.

 _It’ll pass_ , he told himself. And so it did.

One thousand years went by and Crawly thought of the angel less and less every day. Aziraphale became a vague memory. Yes, he’d been interesting, but Crawly would meet plenty of interesting beings over the course of Earth’s lifetime.

Then came the day of the flood. Then came the Ark. Crawly, of course, was there to observe the chaos. He didn’t necessarily expect the company of a fellow immortal.

_Oh. Oh no._

There was Aziraphale, again. Crawly hadn’t seen him for centuries, but there was no doubt. It was him. All the feelings that had been dormant somewhere deep within Crawly started to perk up. He scanned his brain for something to say—something clever. But nothing came to mind.

“Hello, Aziraphale.”

Luckily, the angel seemed much less interesting this time around. More dutiful, less doubtful.

“I’m surprised you can write off the murder of children as part of God’s plan,” Crawly said, as the rain started to fall. “They’re supposed to be innocent, no? Pure of heart or somesuch.”

“I never said I liked it. And I don’t recall asking for an ethics lesson from a demon, anyway,” grumbled Aziraphale. “I couldn’t very well get away with performing a miracle to bring all the kids to safety. Someone Above would notice.”

Crawly smirked. There. Still a hint of the rebellion. “So, you’re saying you’d do it if you knew you could get away with it?”

Aziraphale glared at him. His eyes were quite a lovely shade of blue.

* * *

Upon leaving Mesopotamia, Crawly decided it was only a coincidence that he’d run into Aziraphale twice on Earth. The world was a pretty big place, if nowhere near as big as Heaven or Hell. He probably wouldn’t see him again. That was for the best. Demons led lonely lives, but that was just fine with Crawly, as long as he could stir up trouble to distract himself. If things got too dull, he slept a few years (or more) away. Easy.

By 33 A.D., thoughts of Aziraphale had lifted away like a light fog. Besides, that Christ fellow had been stirring up some strange and exciting chatter in Israel for the last three decades. It had been more than enough to keep Crawly entertained. A shame, then, that he had to be put to death. And to think Lucifer didn’t even have a hand to play in the execution! People took it upon themselves to get rid a man trying to spread the word of God, kindness and love. Humans were quite horrendous—maybe God did have a point when She drowned that large group of them. Crawly attended the crucifixion out of morbid curiosity.

When he saw Aziraphale, he thought, _I must be cursed._

The angel wore a combination of disgust and melancholy on his face. Despite the situation, though, he greeted Crawly almost like a friend. This was dangerous.

And next time around, Crawly didn’t avoid Aziraphale for quite so long.

* * *

“Crawly!”

He recognized the voice right away and hated himself for it. Sure, he’d have a drink with the angel—that couldn’t do much harm. Perhaps spending more of an extended period of time with him would make Crawly realize how utterly boring Aziraphale actually was. The idiot didn’t even _consider_ a business proposal that would lessen the burden on them both. His obsession with food wasn’t endearing, it was pointless. Worse than that, Aziraphale told Crawly he spent his leisure time reading.

“Let me try to understand,” said Crawly. He had already finished one pitcher of wine himself. “You read to _reduce_ your boredom?”

“You don’t?”

“Mm. No, not so much.”

“Well, you’re missing out on some splendid work,” said Aziraphale, leaning forward as if he were telling a secret. “Plato, for example, he’s quite fascinating.”

“The philosopher? I’m pretty sure my side invented philosophy. You reading Plato is probably sacrilege or something.”

“Oh, just listen!” Aziraphale gave Crawly a playful swat on the arm that indicated he, too, was feeling the wine’s buzz. “Forget whatever you know about _The Republic_.”

“Uh. All right. Done.”

“I really couldn’t be bothered with _The Republic_! _The Symposium_ , though, much of the writing is quite beautiful. He wrote it three hundred years back, give or take.”

With little additional context, Aziraphale launched into a summary Aristophanes’ speech from the book. People, he’d theorized, once had four legs, four arms and two faces. They lived happily this way until Zeus ordered for them all to be split in half.

“Ever since, humans have been doomed to wonder about looking for their other halves. The person they’re meant to love.”

Crawly raised an eyebrow. He’d gone through another cup of while listening to that explanation. “But that’s…woefully incorrect,” he said. “We saw the first two people on Earth and they weren’t—”

“Not the point, my dear fellow!” Aziraphale slapped his palm against the bar for emphasis. Crawly was taken aback. For reasons he couldn’t explain, though, he wanted Aziraphale to keep talking.

“I’m not sure I see the point.”

Aziraphale let out a heavy sigh. “It’s beautiful. And so heartbreaking,” he insisted. “Imagine that: imagine moving through life knowing your missing piece is somewhere out there. Maybe just barely out of reach. Like…hmm. Like there’s this gaping wound in your chest. And it only heals when you find them.”

“A bit dark.”

Aziraphale chucked. “Yes. A bit.”

Crawly looked down into his empty clay cup. _I am absolutely fucked_.

* * *

It went like this, on and on, for literal ages. Time would pass between their meetings and Crowley would, gradually, stop thinking about Aziraphale. _Just a phase_. But the angel kept popping up.

Though—to be fair—Crowley (as he now called himself) started doing his fair share of popping up, too. Mostly when the Aziraphale was in some kind of trouble. It was in his own best interest, he told himself. Once he had persuaded Aziraphale to agree to “the arrangement,” life became easier for both of them. Crowley was used to doing half of the work. If the angel discorporated, he would have to go back to doing Hellish duties on his own.

Crowley held onto that excuse until 1941.

A group of Nazis set Aziraphale up. Again, helping Aziraphale made logical sense: the angel was useful to him. But Crowley also saved the books. That was…something else.

“Lift home?” he’d said, when what he really wanted was to ask Aziraphale to sit in his passenger seat for the next century. Every time Crowley made an especially risky turn or stepped on the gas a little too forcefully, Aziraphale reached out and grabbed his arm, which only made Crowley drive faster.

“Crowley...”

“Hmmm?”

“Is this level of speed necessary?” said Aziraphale, digging his fingertips into Crowley’s shoulder.

“‘Fraid so,” Crowley replied with a smirk.

The downside was that the pair arrived in SoHo much sooner than they might have, had Crowley gone at a reasonable pace. Somehow, the night felt suddenly quiet. The streets were dark and unoccupied. One could briefly pretend the world was at peace: not silent in fear, but in restful slumber.

Aziraphale started to leave the Bentley but, before he did, turned to look back at the demon. His eyes shone with something like affection.

“Thank you. Really. For all of it.”

Crowley scrolled through all the things he wanted to say, then pushed them to the back of his mind. “You’re making me regret saving those books at all,” he lied.

Aziraphale laughed and Crowley wondered if there was some demonic way to capture that bright sound, seal it in a bottle and keep it with him forever. Damn it—if Aziraphale found out how much power he had over Crowley, it could be a disaster.

“Well, I better carry on before you think better of it and light them all aflame,” said the angel. “Goodnight.”

Watching Aziraphale slide out of the out of the car and shut the door, Crowley felt a sinking sensation in his chest. “Goodnight,” he said weakly.

As he drove off, the sinking turned into an ache, as if he’d been wounded there. Demons shouldn’t be capable of love, he reasoned. Not _this_ kind of love. Then again, Crowley was an angel once. Perhaps he wasn’t as thoroughly corrupted as he (not to mention God) believed. It seemed as if Aziraphale had accessed the final, thinnest ray of light within him. If only Crowley could figure out how to extinguish it.

He weighed his options as he sped down the road. He could attempt to persuade Aziraphale to Fall. Granted, tempting angels was harder than tempting humans (or so Crowley assumed. He’d never tried to tempt an angel before. He would probably be good at it).

No. That wouldn’t help, he told himself. It’s not as if we could play house together in Hell.

As much as Crowley was loath to admit it, Haster had been right. So many times he said Crowley had been on Earth for too long. These desires Crowley had—at their core, they felt human. He often imagined a cottage somewhere in south England where he and Aziraphale could live, just the two of them. It was sickeningly similar to a mortal marriage. A demon wanting a domestic partner! How foolish. Still, Crowley couldn’t ignore it any longer. It’d take up much less energy to accept it: he loved the Aziraphale. He’d jump into a pool of holy water for him.

Coincidentally, holy water would soon create a rift between Crowley and Aziraphale. That rift would cause Crowley to do something irreversible.

* * *

It was 1967, not long after Aziraphale relented and brought him the holy water.

“You go too fast for me.”

Surely Aziraphale was being literal. Wasn’t he? Crowley hadn’t even hinted at wanting anything beyond their current arrangement. (Well, besides the holy water.) But the angel seemed too upset to be talking about Crowley’s driving habits alone.

The demon dwelled on it for days. Part of him hoped Aziraphale would get himself into trouble (again) so he could swoop in and rescue him (again). All would be forgiven, then. The problem, of course, was that he didn’t know what he needed to be forgiven for. A nap might help—just a short one. A day. A year. In the end, he pulled up to the bookshop a little more than two weeks after Aziraphale had walked away from him.

The shop had closed an hour ago, but Crowley knew his angel. Aziraphale would no doubt still be there, reorganizing shelves or flipping through pages. Crowley knocked firmly and, after a minute, heard the familiar footsteps approach the door. It swung open and there he was. Aziraphale, perfect as ever.

“Crowley,” he spoke the name on an exhale, as if he’d been holding his breath. “This is a surprise.”

“You know me,” Crowley shrugged. “I’m full of those.”

“Erm, is this a business call, or..?”

“No. I just...”

_Wanted to see you._

Crowley shifted awkwardly in the doorway.

“I just thought—I mean, it occurred to me that...” he trailed off. “Do you have wine?”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together in a way that suggested he was trying not to laugh. “Of course. Come in.”

Crowley followed him into the familiar back room, which had barely changed since Aziraphale opened the shop more than a hundred years back. The messiness was a tad charming.

“I don’t want to interrupt anything if you’re busy,” said Crowley, knowing full well it was a lie.

“No, no. Just reading. Have a seat, my dear. Red or white?”

“Red,” said Crowley, sinking into his usual chair. Well, not _his_ chair, but it might as well have been. It was an unspoken rule that Crowley always took the chair on the far side of the coffee table, closer to the wall. “You can keep reading. I won’t cause any trouble.”

“You? Trouble?”

“Angel, please. It’s been a rough day.” _A long two weeks thinking about that completely impenetrable thing you said._

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. In truth, Crowley got a bit of joy out of seeing the angel’s concern.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offered. “Or would you rather just...” he produced three bottles of merlot “...wine about it?”

Crowley groaned. Being all bent out of shape over an angel was bad enough. On top of it all, this particular angel had the most boring, wholesome sense of humour. Not even wholesome in a cute way. Not cute at all. _Nope._

Aziraphale poured a glass for each of them and left all three bottles on the coffee table. He was no stranger to how much Crowley liked to drink.

“You know, it’s a good thing you came by,” Aziraphale said over his shoulder as he made his way to the nearest shelf. “I have something for you.”

Crowley almost said, “It’s not a book, is it?” But he thought better of it. It was almost certainly a book. Before Crowley could give a proper response, Aziraphale plunked a copy of _Wuthering Heights_ onto the demon’s lap.

“People often say it’s a love story, but they’re wrong. It’s about revenge,” he explained. “It’s actually quite disturbing at times. You might like it.”

“Er...thanks,” said Crowley. He leaned back in his chair and cracked the spine of the (rather thick) book, which made Aziraphale smile from ear-to-ear before taking his own seat across from him. Crowley caught himself thinking that if this was all it took to make Aziraphale happy, he would read all four hundred pages.

 _Fuck. This is it for me, isn’t it?_ mused the demon. _I’m just going to be a hopeless, lovesick fool for my entire existence. This might just be worse than Hell._

Before Crowley knew it, an hour had gone by. The angel was deep into Sappho’s poetry and Crowley was half-heartedly pretending to read when really, he was only watching Aziraphale. He stared at his blue eyes, darting along the page. Instrumental music played from a record spinning in the background, because “I simply can’t focus on a book and lyrics at the same time,” said Aziraphale.

For about twenty minutes, Crowley had tried to read. The beginning of _Wuthering Heights_ certainly wasn’t the violent novel Aziraphale had promised, however. It didn’t take long for Crowley’s gaze to drift from the page and over to Aziraphale, who was engrossed in verses. He looked so full of adoration, with his lips moving ever so slightly as he silently moved through the verses. Crowley wished Aziraphale would looked upon _him_ that same way, with such concentrated fascination and care. The moment felt close to perfect and, being a demon, Crowley had a knack for destroying perfect things.

“Iloveyou,” he blurted, though it probably sounded more like, “Labudhnuuu.”

“What was that, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, without fully turning his attention from his book.

Maybe it was the merlot. Two out of the three bottles on the coffee table between them were already empty. This was a bad idea—the worst Crowley’d ever had—and since Aziraphale hadn’t heard him properly, there was a good chance he could slither out of the confession. Make up something else. And yet, for some reason, he did not. He finished the rest of the wine in his glass and put _Wuthering Heights_ aside.

“I love you,” Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale dropped his book, which hit the carpet with a light thump. He looked back at Crowley with soft eyes. There was a mix of pity and sadness (and, wait, was that longing?) that made Crowley want to hurl. Good thing he wasn’t physically capable of throwing up.

And then, Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s hand. A spark of hope flashed in the demon’s heart as Aziraphale ran his thumb along Crowley’s knuckles.

“It’ll pass,” Azirphale said, before retracting his hand to save Sappho from the floor.

 _That’s what I keep telling myself_ , thought Crowley. It was no use. He wanted to argue with Aziraphale—explain that, after thousands of years, he was certain these feelings weren’t going away. They’d quiet over time, sure, but they hit him in the face again every time he saw the angel. It was like he fell in love at first sight, and then fell in love again every sight after. He was doomed.

Crowley poured himself some more merlot. “Can we pretend I never said that?” he said, pushing the remains of the third bottle toward Aziraphale.

“Of course. Whatever you like, dear.”

 _What I’d like_ , thought Crowley, _is to kiss your stupid face. I’d like you to ask me to stay._

Once the last bottle was empty, Crowley sobered himself and reluctantly took his leave. He wasn’t sure when he’d see Aziraphale again, and he simultaneously wanted it to be the next day and never again. If his love could fade into the background, it’d be so much easier to survive it, but when Aziraphale was _there_...that was another story.

When Crowley tried to hand back _Wuthering Heights_ , Aziraphale shook his head.

“Keep it,” he said, waving it away.

“I’m not sure when I’ll get it back to you,” admitted Crowley.

“Whenever I see you next. No hurry. I have other copies,” he smiled and, for the hundredth time that evening, Crowley’s heart twisted and turned in his chest. Aziraphale was planning on seeing him again at some point, so maybe he hadn’t ruined everything. “Let me walk you out.”

Together, they passed the shelves and to the front of the shop, and Crowley ached with every step. He couldn’t look at Aziraphale. If he did, he would ask to stay, and he’d embarrassed himself enough for one night.

“Goodnight, Angel,” he said, out the door and down the steps without turning around.

“Goodnight,” Aziraphale said to Crowley’s back. And Crowley might have been imagining it, but he thought he heard Aziraphale say something else before the door clicked shut.

* * *

2019\. Together, Aziraphale and Crowley had narrowly avoided the Apocalypse. They’d also managed to avoid brutal punishment from their respective head offices. The last six days had felt more like another six thousand years, so when Aziraphale invited Crowley back to his (miraculously intact) shop for champagne, he said yes. They sat in their usual places: the same as when Crowley made his ill-fated confession more than fifty years ago.

Aziraphale gushed about Anathema and how they simply _must_ pay her a visit after everyone had taken a well-needed rest. It’d be a good idea for all of them to discuss a plan for keeping an eye on Adam. For now, though, Aziraphale wanted to do nothing but read and drink cocoa for at least a week straight.

“What will you do now?” he asked.

Crowley shrugged. “Take a vacation, maybe. Haven’t been to Mexico in several decades.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“But sometimes I wish I could just stay in London for a while. A long while.”

Aziraphale regarded Crowley quizzically. “Why don’t you?”

“There’s nothing for me here,” Crowley’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I’m fooling myself pretending there is.”

“There’s me.”

Aziraphale’s statement hung in the air between them, heavy with its implications. He wanted Crowley to stay. They could carry on the way they always had: unlikely friends going on ambiguous dates. Aziraphale would drag Crowley to the opera, much to his chagrin. He’d blather on about books as Crowley listened contently. They’d walk in St. James’s Park whenever the sun was shining. It would all be wonderful until Crowley, overcome with his feelings, combusted into hellfire over the mere frustration of wanting to hold Aziraphale’s hand.

“There’s you, yes. That detail is hard to ignore. But, Angel…” Crowley stood, slipping past the table and the chair where his best friend was sitting. He kept his back to Aziraphale, knowing he couldn’t get the words out if he tried looking him in the eye. “I’ve loved you for six thousand years. And if see you every day, I’m afraid,” sighed Crowley, “it’s never going to pass.”

“Crowley.”

“I’m sure it’d be better if I took off until the next Armageddon. But I need something from you, first.”

Aziraphale stood, now, too. Crowley turned to face him.

“Just tell me an angel could never fall in love with a demon. It’s against your nature and I should forget it. Ask me to go, because if you don’t, I’m not sure I could ever leave. Not this time.”

Aziraphale shrunk into himself, and his aura—usually bright enough to make an unshaded demon squint—dimmed to a modest glow. It took Crowley a moment to realize the angel’s eyes were brimming with tears. _Oh, no._ He had been too harsh. He approached the angel with the intention of comforting him, but–

“Oof.”

Aziraphale punched him square in the chest the moment he was within reach. The strike had no real force to it, besides the element of surprise.

“Crowley, you fool. You stupid serpent,” he sobbed. “You are the most selfish, short-sighted oaf I’ve ever met! You’re even more stupid than I gave you credit for!”

“All right, all right, I’m stupid,” Crowley raised his arms in surrender, before resting a hand on each of Aziraphale’s shoulders. Aziraphale huffed in response. “Angel. I’m sorry. I just...I don’t understand why you’re so angry. Tell me.”

“I’m angry,” Aziraphale exhaled, “because you have no idea. The last sixty centuries haven’t been easy for me, either. If I ever pushed you away, it was only because I had to. I was protecting you. If Hell ever found out...”

“I don’t care about Hell. Or Heaven. I’ve told you as much.”

“I know. But I could never risk seeing you be destroyed,” said Aziraphale. “I wished I could love you out loud. And you—you made it so hard to resist. I _wanted_ to go away with you when you asked. But having you as an ally, a friend, even though I wanted more...that was better than not having you at all. Don’t you get it?”

Of course. It all made sense now. Aziraphale loved Crowley, but unlike him, the angel had been selfless about it. All that time, Crowley hadn’t been imagining the stolen glances, the tension or the unique bond between them. Aziraphale had been in as much anguish as he. Maybe more.

“I understand,” said Crowley. “I didn’t before but, I do now. If you can’t forgive me—”

“Damn it. You really are stupid.”

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley by the lapels of his leather jacket. He braced himself for another whack to the chest, but instead, Aziraphale was kissing him. And Crowley kissed him back—hard, as if he was trying to make Aziraphale feel all the pent-up love they’d been denying each other for so many years. He broke away from Aziraphale’s lips only to kiss the remaining tears on his cheeks.

_“He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”_

Aziraphale beamed. “You read it.”

“Once or twice,” admitted Crowley.

“It’s not a love story, you know.”

“So you said. But it reminded me of Plato’s whole, uh, thing.”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s torso and, easily—like it was made to fit there—tucked his head under Crowley’s chin. “Oh, my dear. Please don’t leave.”

“I won’t,” said Crowley, returning the embrace. “Not going anywhere.”

And there in SoHo, just for a minute, a soulless demon believed in soulmates.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're wondering: yes, the title and the first confession in the shop were inspired by Fleabag. I really need someone who isn't me to write a Fleabag-esque AU in which Aziraphale is Hot Priest. The angst! The pining! The possibilities! If you write one or you know of an existing fic like this, please send it my way.


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